“Yes, it was a man; but I won’t say a word more.”
She smiled, triumphant in her woman’s intuition.
“It was that man at Zurich,” she exclaimed; “wasn’t it?”
He turned into the Residenzstrasse and made no reply.
“It was, wasn’t it?” she insisted.
“I shan’t tell.”
“You needn’t tell. I know that it was and you know that it was too, so I’m satisfied.”
They went along past the two sentinels who guard the gate of the royal palace, and emerged on the large open space that spreads before the Feldherrnhalle. From there the Ludwigsstrasse stretches straight out and away to the Siegesthor, stretches in one magnificent splendor of breadth and boulevard and electric lights. They took the right-hand side and set off at a pace neither swift nor slow—just such a pace as will allow sufficient breath for ample conversation.
“You know you’ll marry again, Rosina, no matter what you may say; you know that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”